We got back on the road proper, away from the hordes of crestfallen Zambians, and headed north to the border of the Congo. Everything got a little darker and a little more menacing as we approached. Maybe because the sun was going down. As we passed the final police check point before the Congo border the police officer surveyed us with a puzzled, incredulous gaze that seemed to say, "What ever you say, minzungo". Soon a queue of Semi-trucks in our driving lane formed on the horizon. We came to a stop behind it and seeing no one utilizing the oncoming lane, we popped into it and came closer to the border. We drove for maybe half a mile, but the line of Semis still extended as far as the eye could see and presently a sideways semi blocked our path. People milled about the trucks, and most of the vehicles didn't have drivers. It seemed that the line wasn't moving very fast.
While the "football" match had only caused me moments of discomfort, mainly when I witnessed a gentleman officer of the law holding onto the hood of a reversing car for his life, or when I saw another man being kidnapped for unknown offenses, I began at this point during my time near the Congolese border to feel quite anxious. The look of the area, the look of folks spending their time here at this waypoint, and the levels of trash and refuse piled up on the road conspired to produce that feeling in all of us, I think, and we quickly reversed course and headed back to the more friendly confines of central zambia.
Our next stop was an impromptu one. For a reason that would only in hindsight become clear, we pulled of the road to "have a drink" at a bar. Mike and I, docile sheep that we are, gladly followed our orders and proceeded to have a number of cocktails while watching the US being dismantled on TV as Zambian patrons looked on with mingled satisfaction and sympathy. Suddenly, our driver Ngoma, who had been somewhere else this entire time, asked us if we would be pleased to stay for dinner. Mike and I shrugged our shoulders, supposing the place to be no better or no worse than anywhere else and ordered out food. We continued at our well paced clip and eventually we had our food served, and hopped in the car for a slightly altered ride home (highlighted by the song "I kissed your sister" by Sean Kingston). The song was played 9 times during the half hour drive.
What we later came to understand is that polygamy is quite common in Zambia. Our bulky but lovable driver, really stretches the root word "poly" to its limits. By our modest estimates, he has at least one girl in every city in the country. He met up with one at the bar we suddenly and inexplicably stopped at, and again, the next day during our drive to Lusaka we were subjected an amorous interlude when he asked us to stop at a "train station".
Besides Ngoma's trysts, the ride back was much as the first, characterized by loud music, a broken bass speaker and a playlist of three inexplicably mind numbing songs. My only solace, away from the wonderful roadside fruit that I purchased for an amazingly low price, was to see my twitching compatriot Lamick's legs trapped behind the seat of the enormous Ngoma and to laugh loudly and manaically to myself.
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